


lavender season

by brightpyrite



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Flowers, Post-Thor: Ragnarok (2017)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-07
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-01 11:43:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13294152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightpyrite/pseuds/brightpyrite
Summary: And it was there, in your little hole-in-the-wall flower shop on the corner of the street, where you met a god.





	1. Chapter 1

That morning felt odd. In fact, the day so far felt odd. But you couldn't pinpoint an exact moment why or how you felt that way. It just was.

You left for work at seven, running somewhat late and eating on the way but who cared? You were the boss anyway. You thought about pushing opening hours later, but haven't set that into motion just yet, since few customers came in the morning anyway. 

Especially now in the winter, when the sun hasn't risen yet. Even so, you like seeing the sunrise, the warm ripples coloring the bleak, frosty sky. As you walk to your store a few streets down from your apartment, you quietly run the day's schedule through your head.

In this cold month, business has slowed dramatically in comparison to last month, everyone having already gotten over their sport matches, dance recitals, theater shows, and whatnot. It didn't help that you were located in the very edge of the city, and deliberately wedged between a local cafe and an antique bookstore. 

Your only customers are the regulars who live in the nearby apartment buildings like yourself, the visiting relatives from outside the city coming to some family event and needing flowers, and the occasional hipster who takes pictures of your succulents before leaving and not buying anything.

You appreciate them all. And _especially_ those lone hipsters, who inadvertently give your shop free promo on the internet.

Was it colder today than yesterday? You can't tell, and you didn't check the forecast this morning. But your breath billows into the wind, and when you jam your key into the lock on the backdoor, you find it has frozen. Terrific, you think.

It takes you a few minutes before you’re able to crack open the door, and immediately a gust of warm air hits you in the face, fogging up your glasses. You hated that about glasses in the winter, and typically wore contacts anyway but today was not that day it seemed. When you finally settle in, dumping your bags in the backroom and unzipping your jacket, you finally glance at the clock. 8:07 AM. Okay, not bad. You prod the leaves of a spiraling bamboo plant on the windowsill, observing it for any signs of wilting. Thankfully, it appeared healthy despite the cold so you set it aside. 

You’ve learned with time to see how many roses to snip into bouquets from the bushes in the regulated greenhouse in the back section of the shop, so you grab your gloves.

You push your hair back, inspecting the large pink roses within the prickly, dark green bush. Snagging one bud out of the thorns, you snip it off with its thin stem intact, and set it in a long-stemmed glass vase full of water. You hum as you go through the inventory, snipping along. 

You’ve become accustomed to the delicacy necessary to not need gloves, but every once in a while you do pull back a little too quickly, and end up with scratched wrists. The wounds begin to bead up with blood, and to your surprise, drip. You normally never scrape yourself that severely.

“Damn.” You put down the clippers and set the vase of roses on the cashier counter before rushing to the metal sink. You wait under the cold water until it runs clear before shutting off the faucet, and you pat the wounds dry with a towel whilst looking for gauze. 

After a little digging around for bandages larger than finger band-aids, you finally found them, nimbly wrapping the roll around your right wrist. Finally at 8:30 AM, you unlock the front doors.

Of course, it’s a quiet start. You’re lucky, on frigid days like these, to have even ten customers on a single day. You finish up morning preparations by watering the necessary plants and sweeping the floors of fallen soil.

With your elbows on the counter, you glance at the rustic brick walls around you, and crack a soft smile. You’re proud of this small flower shop of two employees, you really are. Its got its ups and downs, but doesn’t everything?

Speaking of the other employee Elle, a middle-aged woman, you haven’t seen her in a while. You both always had full-shifts on separate days, and she’s been working for a few months now. Both her and you began working more after the college student who previously worked part-time quit to go abroad for a year. He was nice too, but you suspected that he stole tulip bulbs from storage sometimes.

It was tiring with only two employees in truth, and you’ve had the _NOW HIRING_ sign out on the front glass window for a few weeks now, but no one has come in nor called inquiring about the position, so you brace yourself for a few more weeks of fatigue.

You take it upon yourself to rearrange the potted orchids that are sat in the center of the store, with large and vibrant petals that face the ceiling. Several pink petals drop as you move the vases around, and you delicately pick them up one by one and place them on the counter for now. Looking out the window, you observe the sun that peeks out from above the buildings, bright streams of light among the murky gray. Out on the street, ice lines the sidewalks, like streaks of white on ash.

Sliding into your seat behind the cashier counter, you wait patiently, fiddling with the loose petals as you do. It might be a long day.

The bells on the door chime, and you glance up, and smile. The man who walked in was a regular, who often bought fertilizer and bouquets for his daughter’s musical performances. 

“Can I preorder annual bulbs?”

“Oh, sure! I have the catalog if you’d like to check that out,” you say, putting down your book, making certain to flip it upside-down so the cover couldn’t be seen. Reading trashy romance novels to poke fun at them was out of irony at first, but at some point the line blurred and you began reading them shamefully for fun. “I’ll give you a mailing order sheet, hold on.” You hand him the spring flower bulbs catalog before you jump off the stool.

You open the door into the backroom, and peruse speedily through the bookshelf. Where did you put those mailing sheets? You got them in the mail just a few weeks ago, and you had _planned_ to send them out this week sometime anyway. You furrow your brows, thinking deeply. 

Finally, your eyes land on a familiar manila package on the top shelf. Why had you put it there? Maybe Elle did. As you scoot the step stool over to snatch it, the door bell sounds again. “Coming!” you call, pulling out a clean mailing sheet.

“Thanks for waiting,” you say, “I’ll be sending out the catalog too in a few days, so you can take it home with you. You’re on our mailing list, right?”

“Of course,” he says, “and hey, last year, I had all cool-toned flowers. I was thinking this year to brighten up, you know, maybe have some kind of complementary color pattern going on?”

“That’s really interesting!” you say, “Just remember to keep the different plants spaced apart so there’ll be an even distribution of water.”

He beams. “Will do. Thanks again.”

“Stay warm!” you say after him, as the open door pulls in a gust of cold air. The door shuts again loudly with chimes, and your attention turns to the stranger. Their backside faces you, so you can’t quite tell if you recognize them just yet. They’re bent over, inspecting several petite bellflower bushes on the table.

But the black suit piques your attention carefully. Maybe he was looking for flowers for the departed? That’s a sad thought. You push your glasses up. 

“If you need any help, feel free to ask!” You expect a dismissive “I’m good, thanks,” response, but instead you’re met with a response.

“Which one of these fare best in the cold?” A masculine voice, both deliberate and precise.

“In this sort of cold, I’m afraid not much,” you joke, “it frosts often here.” The orchid petals on the counter flutter between your fingers. “Are you looking for special occasion flowers?”

“Maybe. I haven’t decided yet.” He turns towards you, his eyes bright even from a distance. Subconsciously you look away, unsettled for a moment. Did you know this man? How is it that you feel as though you’ve seen him from somewhere? Maybe you’ve passed him by in the mall or something. You push aside this doubt to come closer to him.

“Well, if you were, is it for a relative, a significant other, a friend...?” Often, for people who just come in to view the plants and escape the cold, you encourage them to buy a cactus. But you feel as though this man might not appreciate a good, round cactus so you don’t both mentioning it.

“Family,” he says pointedly. He pokes a leaf of a lily flower.

“We have yellow and white roses,” you say. “If you need a bouquet prepared, I can do that.”

“Roses?” he sniffs.

“They’re not necessarily romantic. Red, orange, and pink ones can be, in the right circumstances,” you say. “But I get it. Too corny?”

“What about these?”

Your eyes fall on the white flowers he gestures to. “Lilies? Sure. Purity, royalty, that kind of thing--”

“I’ll take it.”

You blink, and turn back to the cashier counter. “Alright. You can pick whichever bouquet you want here, and I’ll ring you up.” Something about him seems eerily familiar. _Where_ have you seen this lanky, white man with a regal aura--

Your stomach drops. On television, that’s where. 

You pat your pockets for your phone rapidly, but to no avail. You imagine calling the police like “Hello officers, Mr. Laufeyson is in my flower shop and he might kill me over some flowers?” and suddenly you feel woozy. You steal a glance over your shoulder at him, who still appears to be choosing a bouquet, and take a large breath inwards. He just wants some flowers, you think to yourself. Why would he kill you over some flowers if he wants world domination? You exhale loudly, and he perks up. 

You stiffen when he looks over at you. You have no doubt in your mind that it’s him. Bigger question was, where was Thor? And who was he buying lilies for?

“Sorry,” you squeak, your voice cracking. You’re inches away from visibly shaking, you can feel it. Clearing your throat, you force yourself to stand tall. You’re not about to let yourself be bossed around by a malicious, white space viking alien. Just ring him up and _go._

You almost trip over your potted orchids on your way to the register. “So, Loki-- em, sir, that’ll be fourteen ninety-nine.”

He cocks his head. “Midgardian currency?”

“It’s USD-- but yes, Midgardian currency,” you reply. He hasn’t shown any signs of hostility yet, so maybe-- just maybe, he won’t be taking your eyeball today. You eye your phone in the slightly ajar drawer beside you, but don’t make any move to take it out.

“I haven’t seen the exchange rates, but,” he says, fishing something out of his blazer pocket, “this should suffice.” 

You squint down at what he has placed on the counter.

"An Asgardian coin," he says. "Pure gold. I know you humans happen to like this sort of material." His eyes then scan over to your bandaged wrist. “Is that recent?”

You take your arm off the counter. “Pretty recent.”

To your alarm, he extends his free hand, as if asking for something. “Allow me.”

“Allow you to what?” you ask carefully.

Loki rolls his eyes at your timidness. “Just let me see your wrist, darling.”

You turn your hand over, and he takes your wrist delicately. While he runs his thumb over the gauze, you can’t help but notice how cold his fingers are. However the moment is cut short when he withdraws, nodding back to the single gold coin sitting on the counter. “Will this be enough?”

You shake your head, clearing your thoughts. Whatever that was about, that scared the shit out of you. You thought maybe he was going to snap your arm in half or something. Despite all your brain cells screaming to grab it and kick him out, you sputter, "I can't take this."

“You can’t?”

“No, no! It’s way too much. I won’t take it, sorry,” you say, startled.

He frowns. "And why not?"

"You're giving me gold in exchange for a bouquet? I don't think that's right."

He quirks his brows up, as if amused at your earnestness. "But it is. These are beautiful flowers, and with this money...," he says, waving his hand around, "could probably find a larger lot to sell your products on."

You stop at this. "Excuse me?"

He glances back at you, and shrugs. "It's a little confining."

Your ears burn and you're not sure why. No one's insulted your shop before, and you feel greatly protective of it, like a mother. "Hey! It's not confining! It's... quaint." After you blurt this, you pull away, fully aware you've just talked back to a god, and more importantly, a mass murderer. "It's quaint," you repeat more softly this time, attempting to persuade both him and yourself.

Before he can respond, you shake your head, pushing the coin away. "You know what? Just take the flowers, it's fine. Do you want the flowers in a plastic sleeve or are you all set?"

"That's charity," he remarks simply, his pale blue eyes unwavering.

“It’ll be a one-time offer, then. Plastic sleeve?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” He hovers for a moment, as if waiting for you to regret your choice, before slipping the coin back into his blazer pocket. “Have a good day.”

You press a smile. “You too, sir.”

You don't expect for him to come back. Strangers rarely do, anyway.

You watch him leave the shop, and a breath hitches in your throat when you see him glance back at you for a split second through the wide display windows. You blink, and he has vanished. 

Tonight, you’re a little too eager to close up shop, and lock the doors with relish at six on the dot. You need a well-deserved vacation, you think to yourself. Maybe a trip down south for a week. The temperature has dipped below zero and when you get into your apartment building, you’re basically an icicle.

That night in the bathroom of your apartment, you unravel your bandages and scrub away at your blood-stained skin. Running your fingers along your skin, your heart seems to pound in your chest. The scratch lines were almost entirely closed, except for faint scabs, and you freeze on remembrance of when Loki had remarked upon your wrist. You don’t believe it. The entity that attempted to destroy New York City years ago has healed your thorn scratches.

Okay, you think, this isn’t weird at all. 

Tossing the bandages away, you strip quickly to take a scorching shower and get your mind off it all. But the time under the shower head only gives you more time to plow through your thoughts. Unless he was scoping out the most local residential neighborhoods, there would’ve been no reason for him to find your shop. You’re nowhere even _near_ the classic tourist sites of the city, so his arrival is strange. Maybe he had a hideout somewhere around here? The thought of him being your apartment neighbor makes you both laugh and gag.

You dry yourself off quickly, and go to put away your jacket that you’ve haphazardly thrown on the couch. You’re not exactly sure what to have for dinner, but the leftover pasta from last night appears to be calling your name. As you pull open the closet door, something rattles out of your jacket, and for the second time your heart stops.

“You,” you whisper.

The shiny Asgardian coin on the floor only mocks you in return.

You’re not sure how to feel, but the fact that the Norse god of mischief thinks that A) you’re weak, and B) you’re poor; gives you a less-than-pleasant one.

You pick up the heavy coin, staring at it with intent before setting it on the kitchen table without a second glance. Certainly if you sold that coin, you’d be receiving some real, hard cash. But that doesn’t appeal to you, bizarrely enough. 

That night, as you chew thoughtfully on pesto pasta, you think about all the possible travel destinations to take. And also, why you didn’t call the cops when the chance had risen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did someone say flower shops?!!!! (cricket noises)  
> i took a quick break from my thor fic to try my hand at mister loki laufeyson.. let's say this is set post ragnarok and they've safely reached earth bc don't we all want that
> 
> lmk what you think about this so far!


	2. Chapter 2

It is eleven in the afternoon, and two weeks since Loki first stepped into your rustic flower shop. As days passed, you’ve become to consider that interaction insignificant, that it was random, out of the blue, and completely uncalculated. You did, however, keep the gold coin in the center of your dining table, mainly since you were unsure what exactly to do with it.

But one thing was for sure: you did _not_ need the monetary value of his charity to get by.

On another hand, you haven’t heard from Loki, through the news or otherwise. You’ve understood this as a positive thing.

Two weeks after that event, you finally set up a midday shift change to catch up with Elle. And you suppose you should take your leave now.

This time around, you do check the forecast before you step out the door, wrapping your scarf carefully around and tucked into your jacket.

Your fingers have numbed when you reach the store, fumbling with the metal handle.

If it weren’t for the Asgardian token sitting on your kitchen table like an eternal reminder of the universe beyond Earth, you would have forgotten about Loki. Your scabs from that day have healed up nicely, and everything was pleasantly mundane.

Elle greets you kindly when you enter the store and you smile wide. “It’s been a while.”

“It has,” you agree.

She tells you of her recent activities, and you tell her of yours, that are a little less familial. As she handles the front and you go to the back to tidy up the shelves, she speaks again.

“You know,” she says into the quiet, “someone was asking about you the other day. Don’t think he’s from around here, or I’d known him.”

“Oh?” you say from the backroom, blowing dust off a box of garden lime sacks. How long has these been here?

“Yeah, a man. Tall, black hair, white– you know him? He didn’t give me his name.”

“Mm,” you say, subconsciously. Then freeze, standing up. You poke your head out the door to eye her warily. “Wait, what?”

“A guy was asking where you were. A friend of yours?”

“He _came back?_ ” you blurt, eyes wide. You can’t believe that Elle had no idea who Loki was, or at the very least, had no idea what he looked like. “When?”

Elle stops in watering the plants. “He was in here before? And Thursday; just two days ago.”

Thursday. You don’t recall what day it had been when he first came in, but there was some possibility he was trying to follow your schedule. Or were you being far too paranoid?

Ducking back into the dim backroom, you carefully formulate your next question. “I don’t know him, by the way. How did he know my name?” Last time you checked, no one wore name tags.

“I told him,” she responds. “Maybe he just moved in.”

“Maybe,” you mumble, “last time he came in to buy lilies. A bouquet. What did he buy this time?”

“Did he now? He bought a potted lily, I think.”

You bite your lip thoughtfully. “Huh.” Maybe he really was moving in– why else would he buy an indoor plant? You’re not too inclined in finding out.

“Oh!” you say suddenly, filing the plant books back onto the shelf after dusting. “I have a question.”

“Yes?”

“So the farm we buy our blue roses from have lavender ones now, and I was thinking on placing an order on those too. If people like them, then I’ll try to make space for them in the greenhouse. What do you think?”

“Sure, that sounds fantastic. At some point we should just stock all sorts of roses,” she jokes. “Valentine’s Day might get hectic.”

You agree. It always was, and seeing frantic lovers slip in at the last minute before closing on on the thirteenth was always expected. At least you got paid, so the absence of a significant other isn’t _that_ heavily felt.

“How are you and George?”

“George?” You echo. “Oh, right. George.” You had completely forgotten about that phantom. “He’s great.”

Once, when you first hired Elle, she had asked if you were single and if you were interested in going on a date with her son. Out of complete panic and uncertainty, you’d accidentally told her you were already taken, with a lawyer named George who lived in Boston.  
To be frank, you don’t know _any_ Bostonian white-collar worker named George. You really wonder why, at the time, you couldn’t of just said no to the date and gone on your way. You were a dummy, but that’s life.

It’s been a total of six months with George.

Sometimes you think about making an elaborate ruse, explaining to Elle that you and George have broken up and he has found a new lover named Michael, but the right moment has never come up. So you stay silent, pleading silently for her to never ask for a picture of you and your enigmatic sweetheart. You wipe your hands off and shut the backroom door. Washing your hands, you repeat, “It’s been great, honestly.”

“It’s too bad he lives so far away,” she hums, slicing off an inch of a hybrid tea rose. “You should take a few days off to visit him.”

You shake your head. “I couldn’t do that. There’s too much to be done.” There’s a twinge of regret in those words– you did very much want a break, but that wouldn’t be fair to Elle, and besides, you didn’t have any boyfriend to visit. Chances are it would just be you watching movies in your bed, alone. For a week. Which wasn’t so bad, to be honest.

At _some_ point, you were going to use your imaginary lover as an excuse to bounce, but not now, not yet.

“When you’re ready, you can punch out,” you remind Elle, “I can take over from here. Thanks for mopping the floor.”

She shuts the register with a loud _click!_ and undoes the apron knot around her waist. “You’re right. I have some shopping to do before it gets dark. Do you want anything next door?” She gestures to the cafe, but you shake your head. Assuming they don’t close early today, you think to yourself, you’ll probably slip in for a croissant at six anyway.

After Elle leaves, you pause, racking your brain for duties. Had you two missed any urgent matter? You truly don’t remember. You turn on the radio to fill the quiet.

The first thing you do is call the farm to pre-order those lavender roses that looked so stunning online, and the rest of the day drags by.

The clock ticks and at 5:45, you slide out of your apron to buy a croissant from the adjacent cafe. When you return with a pastry in hand, you shuffle to the backroom to grab a broom and do some last-minute sweeping for the week and closing the register.  
The cold seemed particularly brutal now that the sun has gone down and you didn’t expect anymore customers from then on. You hum softly to a love song that you used to listen all the time to as you unhook the dustpan from the wall.

“Thank God. I was afraid I was too late.”

You jolt at the sudden voice. “Nope, you’re just in time! Hang on, please.” You didn’t even hear the bells chime this time, which puzzles you. You whirl around whilst attempting to neaten your hair with one hand, the other occupied with the pastry.

You think it’s all a sick dream when he shows up in his prim clothing. You physically jolt backwards, the croissant falling from your fingers but you act quick, ducking down and snatching it up before it hit the recently mopped tiles. “Jesus! You almost made me drop my bread,” is the first thing you say.

"Close, but it’s actually Loki.” He watches you take a hearty bite into the pastry, and with it between your teeth, you properly tie your hair back, eyes downcast. Your heart pounds and the weak radio signals, the white noise, only heightens the mellowness between you two.  
You’re almost positive he can hear your heart beat against your rib cage. In fact, your brain seems to draw blanks on itself, and you barely process the joke he’s made. If he even was joking.

“I know,” you say, chewing quietly. You flit through various emotions at a rapid pace: at first believing you were at peace, somehow _accepting_ his presence in the bright-lit shop as if he were just another customer; and then sudden, overwhelming dread; and finally, a certain shyness, as if any ill-timed move you made could humiliate you.

He tilts his head, almost naively, at your tense movements and squints. But he doesn’t say anything, as if he expected you to fill the void first.

You oblige to this silent command. “Sorry, I just can’t get used to you, you know, in my flower shop. It’s kind of nuts.” The croissant flakes away in your hands.

“It’s fine,” he muses. “You treat me well for someone who might be considered a criminal here.” You’re surprised he even admit that about himself.

You don’t blame the people who turned him away. You just didn’t have the guts to at first, you were sure. You were simply too stiff with fright to properly dial the police, that’s what it was that fateful day. Right? Regardless to the technicalities, you slowly take the broom into your hand. “You’re not here for my treatment of you though.”

“No,” he says. “I’m here for your flowers.” You stifle a sigh of relief and take another bite. You feel as though, somehow, he wouldn’t take disrespect to you eating. And he doesn’t remark upon it; too taken with your potted plumerias.

You attempt to speak again. “Those are my favorite. The cream ones.” Similar to any person who worked in retail, you wished for all customers to leave prior to closing time lest you had to stay longer than you had to.

“These?” His fingers hover over the pale petals of the slender stemmed plant. “Why?”

You shrug, setting your half-eaten pastry on a napkin. “I don’t know. They’re pleasant though. If you like flowers that smell good, find the small ones.” You knew this well, because on the far-left corner of the storefront right between the windowsill and the register sat two jasmine plants.  
The earthy fragrance wafts up from their alcove now and then through the breeze of the ajar door (often in the summer) and it always sets you at ease. The cold has subdued their refreshing nature but it was always there, albeit subtlety.

You’ve already changed, so the second he leaves you’ll do another once-over and then lock the doors, you think. You sweep in a circle on the floor with the broom absentmindedly. Looking to the window, you see the shadows slowly lapse and swallow shapes in the dark. You wonder where he goes for the night.

“What do you do with wilting plants?”

“You can cut off the blossom sometimes, and it’ll grow back,” you say. “Or compost. That’s in the greenhouse in the back.” The greenhouse was the main reason why the store lot was cramped– it took up a third of the space, located behind the backroom, with its lamps always on and humidity cranked high.

You realize, with prickling clarity, he’s watching you again.

“Yes?” you ask.

“Where are your glasses, those big, unwieldy spectacles of yours?”

“At home,” you say, ignoring his pointed jab and the mere fact he remembered that you wore such thing. “I’m wearing contacts right now.”

“I could give you perfect sight with just the snap of my fingers, you know.”

“Can you really?”

“I can do many things you’d never even fathom.”

“I bet,” you say under your breath. Clearing your throat, you continue, “Don’t bother. I’m saving up for laser eye surgery.” When he doesn’t respond, you say, “So I can shoot lasers out of my eyes?” In spite of the playful nature of this jab, you’re concerned with how he will react.

“You must take me for a fool,” he says, without bitterness. You take that positively as well.

“No, I thought you might find it funny. If only though, right? I’d be like… Superman.”

“Who?”

“Superman? You–”

“Jokes,” he says. “I know who he is, dear.”

You scoff. “Are you going with the lilies this time around again or should we expect something different?”

He turns his head, brows raised. “You remember my purchase.”

“It’s hard to forget when someone like you walks into my store.” You pause. “When a _god, _excuse me, walks into my store.”__

__“Do you have any recommendations then?”_ _

__“What do you need these flowers for?”_ _

__“Decor.”_ _

__“If you can wait a few weeks,” you say, leaning the broom against the wall. “I’ll be bringing in a new shipment of roses.” You pop the rest of the croissant in your mouth before you continue sweeping dust and soil into the corner. “Oh! Right, you’re not a fan of roses, my bad.”_ _

__He shakes his head. “No, well… if they’re truly a sight, I’m interested.”_ _

__“They’ll be a great gift for Valentine’s Day too,” you add, “I’ll make sure to set a bouquet aside for you.”_ _

__“Are you only attracted to the flower aspect of all this?”_ _

__“God, no. That’s just what most people are interested in here. I can’t make money off just selling cacti or bonsai trees,” you say. “But they’re still dear to me.”_ _

__“I believe that.”_ _

__Another quiet fills the air._ _

__“I suppose,” he says, “I’ll take my leave now.” When he thanks you, he uses your name for the first time in such a delicate manner that for a moment you aren’t sure who he even was talking to._ _

__“Sure,” you say, “the lilies won’t forget you.”_ _

__“I hope you won’t either.”_ _

__“Never,” you affirm, although taken aback. You’re not sure about the implications of that response, nor do you think he himself knew. You don’t question it though, so he leaves as quietly as he came and similarly to how he left the first night: without a second glance over the shoulder._ _

__In the back of your mind however, the coin glints wickedly and before you know it, you push open the entrance door._ _

__“Wait!” you shout after him. “Next time you come around, I’ll give you your money back, okay? I appreciate it, but I don’t think I should keep it.”_ _

__“Money?”_ _

__“The– the coin.”_ _

__“Oh. That.” With this, he smiles down at you. The wind blows even harder, nipping at your reddened cheeks. “What makes you so certain I’ll return?”_ _

__“Well,” you say, pausing. You shift your weight from one foot to the other. “You did before. I’m glad you like the flowers here.”_ _

__“I do. And a suggestion?” he says, eyes bright under the dim streetlamps. “Relax a little, darling. This anxiety can’t be good for you.”_ _

__I’m trying, you think testily. “We’re closed tomorrow. I’ll be sleeping until nine, if that helps.” Goosebumps have begun to appear on your exposed skin, and you find yourself attempting to hold down a shiver that crawls over you._ _

__“Then have a good night,” he says. “I’d offer to walk you home, but I’ve got work to finish.” The orange lights wash him out against the navy night, and suddenly, it feels as though you are in a movie. Everything certainly seemed larger than life. How are you feeling? Your heart is hammering still, but this time, you’re more aware of the chill in the air than his intensive gaze._ _

__“I’m fine, thanks,” you respond with a certain sharpness punctuating your words. You were gawking at him, you realized, unsettled by the domestic idea of him walking you home, like that would somehow protect you. The ironic nature almost makes you laugh out loud but you don’t dare– you wouldn’t want to expose your home to him anyway. You let go of a deep billowing exhale._ _

__“Have a good night!” you say, as if he were any other customer who was drawn to the splashes of life and the warmth that radiated from the shop._ _

__Somewhere along the lines, you’ve become eager to have his presence, like a familiar face. Or, in contrast, a breath of fresh, _cold_ air. Cold, cold air, that sinks deep in your lungs and lingers in your breath._ _

__The next day, the weather brightens. The ice has become slush, but it’s drizzling so you don’t bother going out. You stick to your plan and don’t get out of bed until noon in your small apartment. If Loki thought your _store_ was small, you cannot imagine how he’d think about your living spaces. _ _

__But that mattered little since you lived alone, in the cozy, modest bubble of yours. Strangely, your thoughts turn to Loki upon awakening. You don’t dare search him up online, and you definitely don’t want S.H.I.E.L.D coming after you, so you simply lie there and stare at the ceiling, visualizing his looming stature and curious disposition._ _

__When he spoke, he spoke articulately, respectably; with no sharp malice embedded in his tone nor movements. You’d like to _think_ he wasn’t there to cause you harm, but what did you know? _ _

__You wonder if he was manipulating you. You wonder if he has changed at all these years, and if a god can thaw as quickly as the ice out on the streets. You wonder if you were treating him the right way; the way he should be treated._ _

__You’re not entirely sure you could, either. You listen to the faint pit-pattering of the rain upon the glass panes and shut your eyes once more._ _

__You blame the source of your thoughts on the physical reminder of his existence in your home. You vow to return that coin because the truth was that ever since you received it, Loki has never once been out of your thoughts._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i’m capping this fic at 12k by keeping the plot simple thanks for reading this chapter! by the way i have absolutely no idea how some of u writers have whole writing playlists when i’m out here chugging out a whole chp whilst listening to only one song on loop i think u guys are so cool and talented:’0)
> 
> lmk how i’m doing / what you think of this so far!


	3. Chapter 3

It came to your attention that Loki never comes by more often than two consecutive days, but what hurts the most about that was the fact you even realized it in the first place. Sometimes he arrived in the morning, sometimes in the evening. For mere minutes to almost an hour.

Those factors were sporadic, but the bare essential that he followed some pattern at all was already eye-opening. It hit you when several days--  _weeks_ passed before he returned.

You've accepted him as a regular, always willing to have small talk with him, and never to prod further than what he wished. After a while, you sincerely didn't mind it. He was a respectful customer who asked genuine questions and never was (overly) snappy with you, which was ideal in general. These were bizarre times indeed.

There were times however, where he asked you questions about yourself. The initial hesitance at some point had led into a sort of nonchalance from both parties to these friendly talks, but neither remarked on the oddity of it all.

"Where on Earth do you like to spend your time the most? Is it here?" he once asked as you rang him through. Two packets of all-purpose plant food. You've learned to not inquire about his purchases but can't help but feel curious.

You shook your head at the time. "No, this is like a home away from home, do you know what I mean? I'm not so sure since I like to travel."

"Where to?"

"Anywhere," you confess. You slip the packets into a paper bag. "Whether you're walking around a city alone, or with someone, it's always fun. You see so much."

"You want to see the world," he says, not in the form of a question. It was a statement, and a very true one at that.

"I do." You hand him his purchase, and with your elbows leaning on the counter you ask, "What about you? Do you have a favorite... planet? Dimension?"

 His mouth twitches into a faint smile. Almost melancholic. "I don't have one."

"Earth not good enough?"

"It's adequate."

 "But you came back."

He looks up from the bag. "Yes," he says simply. "But not willingly."

That's the first time Loki's talked about his reason to be here, and you blink. You already assumed that he wasn't here to cause harm since, well, he hasn't done anything (yet), but it was strange that he was apparently earthbound, literally.

"I hope you enjoy your stay," you offer. "I'd love to see another planet. That seems neat."

"Mm. I don't think you could handle it. You common Midgardians are a mellow race in comparison to what's out there."

The flash of irritation that accidentally passes through your visage isn't lost to him, and he scoffs.

"Don't be like that," he says, "I know how it is."

"Maybe so," you respond, slightly miffed still but embarrassed that he thought your wish was naive. He still doesn't budge after a drawn pause, and you look back to him from the register. "Did you need something else?"

"When are the roses being shipped?"

"Which roses-- oh, yes! I know what you mean. They're scheduled for the first week of February." You tapped the counter absentmindedly. You weren't aware he was actually awaiting them. Who would he give them to, you wonder.

You watched him leave. It's become a routine, horrifically. After this exchange, you don't see him for several weeks.

Ironically, it was on the same very day when he returned, where the ice on the pavement has finally chipped away cleanly and left pools of water as a seasonal parting gift, you got a call back from the farm.

It was hazy outside when you took the call, and when it ended, the clouds seemed to have come in, blocking out the sun.

You slump against the wall, and sigh. Loudly. The farm had called to let you know your shipment of lavender roses won't come in until after Valentine's Day, if at all. They'd offered you sunset roses in compensation but you told them you'd think about it before hanging up. You had sunset roses. You guess there was no point in being upset, seeing it wasn't the farm's fault, not really. Some things just don't work out perfectly, and you understood that. 

Still, it was kind of sad. They would've been a nice novelty. You click your tongue and pull yourself upright before a customer could see you moping. You hadn't really thought of a plan otherwise, and it might be too late to place another bulk order on something else now.

You face your aisle of rose bouquets, eyes travelling quickly over the variety of colors you sold. Should you put another flower in the limelight instead of the classic rose? Tulips? You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. 

You're so deep in thought you almost don't hear the bells chime.

"Elle!" you say, leaning over so she sees you over the racks. "What are you doing here? You're off."

"Hey, I was just passing through and remembered I lost my bracelet yesterday. Have you seen it?"

"Your bracelet? I haven't swept yet, so no," you say, bending down to scan the floor.

"It's just a plain gold bracelet with a charm."

"And you're sure you left it here?"

"Here or in the backroom, I'm fairly sure," she replies, looking about.

 You frown. "I'll keep an eye out, then. Hold on, I'll check the back."

"Okay, thank you," she says apologetically. "I'm in a hurry, so if you do see it, let me know but don't worry about it, alright?"

"Mhmm," you say, already dropping to the floor in the back. You've got a lot on your mind now as you peer under shelves and between crevices in boxes. You're glad you sweep enough to keep the dust off the tiles, but it's still dirt stained. But you don't see it just yet, so you pull yourself off the ground and wipe off your knees. 

"Before you leave, Elle," you call between rooms, "I just want to let you know we won't be getting those lavender roses in time. Sad, right?"

"Lavender roses?" is the response, but in a very  _not_  middle-aged lady voice.

You stop, and call out timidly, "Loki?"

Just as you expected, he appears at the open doorway, and you bite your tongue to not say anything reckless.

"A lady just left," he says, answering your silent inquiry. You nod.

"What's this about lavender roses?" he continues, as he looks around the room that smells of aged books and mulch.

"The specialty flowers I was talking about before? Those," you say glumly. "They're not coming in on time. They told me orders got switched up, I suppose."

He narrows his eyes. "What's so special about these roses?"

"Really purple or blue roses aren't natural here, so they're either bred or dyed. Plus, they're pretty, the ones I meant to order. I had a whole space set up for them in the greenhouse, and-- ugh! To be honest, I don't know why I'm getting so worked up, sorry." You card your fingers through your hair in frustration. "I'll probably get them at some other point."

He gestures to the glass door in the back of the room. "In there?" Without warning nor permission, he steps over to open the door. You stumble after him, closing the door behind you.

"The temperature has to be regulated here," you say. You let him look around as you take gloves from the hook on the wall. You still used your bare hands for most weed-pulling tasks, but with the flowers hidden within the thorny bush, you've learned that sacrificing finger mobility for protection might be just.

"It's soothing here." He looks down the row of rose bushes, separated by panels of wood and mesh.

You smile at this. "It is." You bend down to pluck a weed sprout and gesture to a vacant square lot of soil. "I bet you're used to grander gardens."

"It's not a competition," he says, glancing over. "I'd say this one would bring you more comfort than one cultivated by a... dispassionate gardener."

You shrug. "That's fair." Gesturing over to a blank square lot you say, "That's where I  _wanted_  to plant it, but I guess not anymore."

"I see," he says. He bends down to prod a standard red rosebud. When he meets your gaze, he turns his attention back downward. "Watch."

He flicks the rose, and stands back. You audibly gasp when the rosebud twitches, and begins to unfurl at an alarming rate. In just a few seconds, you were left staring at a fully blossomed rose.

You suck in a breath, at a loss for words. In the end, you utter, "That's insane."

"That's magic," he says.

You can't help but take a step back. It had never left you that he was a god of extraordinary power, but this simple trick brought back all acknowledgement in that title. He notices your slight movement, eyes following your footsteps but never physically reacting otherwise.

You lean over the manipulated rose, and poke it lightly, as if afraid it might chomp down on you. "I can touch it, right?"

"I'm not trying to murder you," he says. "Yes, you may touch the plant."

You run your fingers over its fragile, ruby petals. A "wow" escapes you before you can stop yourself. He might view this as a party trick, but you saw it as miraculous. As well as a game changer in your line of work. You're so caught up in its perfection you don't hear his words. You jerk your head up, focusing back on him. "Sorry?"

“Do I make you nervous?” Loki says again.

You decide not to lie to a god. “A little.” You’re not sure how he takes this, or even understands the unintentional, human nuances he expresses. You feel shy, but between the sort of shy that manifests when speaking intimately with a lover for the first time, and the shy that occurs when attempting to understand a beast-- you can't tell. But you don't wish for him to jump to conclusions so you add, "I don't think any human would feel completely at peace in the presence of an... alien. And a god."

"That's fair." He turns his head.

"But... can I ask you a question?"

You think his silence is a signal to go on, so you do. Deliberately.

“Are we friends?” This was a valid question, in your opinion. After all, he was-- to some degree-- an important customer who you talked to frequently. Sure, it was always in a business setting, but it still counted as a friendly, social gesture.

“Friends?” The distant look in his eyes vanish and he watches you peculiarly. There is a palpable pause before he answers.

“Or,” you say, knitting your brows, “do you think we can be friends?”

“No. Not really.”

You partially expected this, the reality of distance, but for some strange, strange reason, your heart breaks. Maybe your disappointment surfaced upon your face, because he opens his mouth but you quickly compose yourself. You’re not going to let this undo you, you think, because that would be ridiculous.

“That’s awkward,” you say softly, carrying on. “I’d like to be friends with you. Or at least, get to know you.”

“How can we be,” he says, “when you’re afraid of me?”

“Not afraid,” you respond. “Nervous. With you.”

"Right," he says slowly, and as if he's looking behind you, "is that yours?"

You whirl around, and hung within the tangled snares of a peony bush is a gold bracelet.

"What the...," you say, snagging it out. "Thank you? Hold on, I'm putting this on the counter so we don't lose it again." You turn the knob and say over your shoulder, "You're free to keep looking around, if you'd like!"

You scamper quickly to put the piece of jewelry in front of the keyboard where it would be easily seen when Elle opens tomorrow. It's strange, you think, how easily Loki saw it and you hadn't. You notice the lone black umbrella set on the counter but don't pay it any mind as you return to the greenhouse.

 When you return, he's yet again bent over the same bush with his back towards you, but it's twitching violently now. You frown, pulling open the door. "What are you-- oh my God?"

“Yes?” he says.

You walk around him to take a thorough inspection of his alteration. "H- what did you do?"

"I gave you what you wished for," he says, pointblank.

"This is so-- how did you do that? How  _do_  you do this?" you say in complete awe.

"Years of practice. Centuries actually." He's amused at your innocent, human reaction but you don't care.

"So what is it?" you stammer. "Is it real or an illusion?"

"I can't tell you, can I?" he says. "That would break the secret of it all."

He takes the clippers and quickly snips the rose free from the shrub that's brimming with purple blossoms. You can't believe that it was once a bush of red.

You marvel at the soft lavender rose he twirled around slowly, large and vibrant. “You... wow?” you repeat yourself. "This is incredible, thank you. Really."

“My pleasure,” he says quietly. He presents the single flower over to you, and suddenly the atmosphere becomes intimate and silent, only the whirring sounds in the vent making any waves in the room.

You can’t help but just stare at the rose. You wonder how this one looks to the ones the farm had crossbred. A part of you believes they can’t compete at all.

“Tell me,” he says, in a deliberate and hushed tone. “What do lavender roses mean?” He does not take his gaze off you, and you’re almost afraid to take  _your_  gaze off the rose. It’s an illusion, you’re entirely aware, but that doesn’t stop its allure.

“Purple often means royalty. But this case of lavender it’s also love— love at first sight, a besotting love, a kind, growing affection— that sort of thing,” you answer hastily, suddenly feeling some sort of pressure. “Great for Valentine’s Day.”

He pulls away at this, leaving you with the delicately crafted flower. “Fitting.” Then, "Keep this one. I don't care what you do with the rest." 

“I don't know. I feel like I’d be capitalizing off your abilities,” you say, laughing weakly. 

You hear him scoff. “You... I show you a sliver of a magic trick and you think I'm being too generous."

"It just doesn't feel right," you protest. “I guess folks will just have to wait until after Valentine’s day for their purple fix.” You'd naturally put your cold hands in the pockets of your apron, but you find yourself fidgeting a little now, wringing them together with the rose still between your fingers.

"I don't care," he says again, more subdued this time. Splatters hit the glass walls of the greenhouse and you look up at the bloated clouds.

"I didn't know it was going to rain today," you say, dismayed, your hands coming down to your sides.

"Don't like the rain?" he asks, composing himself tall.

You give him an entertained look. "Of course I like it. Not when I don't have an umbrella though." You recall the slender umbrella that he'd placed on the counter earlier. "Glad you came prepared though." You take a nearby watering can and let it drip over the bush.

"Oh, yes." He shifts in his posture, and you two spend a peaceful moment in silence watching the rain fall before heading inside.

"Any chance you can tell your brother to knock it off? I have to walk home." After this slips out, it comes to you that this is the first time you've ever spoken about Thor in Loki's presence.

You see him crack a smile. "I'm afraid no one can control that man."

"Figures," you say, smiling in return nonetheless. You lock the register, doubting that a customer will appear in spite of the weather.

"I hope you don't mind," he says, "if I walk you home this time."

Your jaw clenches for a brief second, glancing back at him, and then back at the darkened downpour. "I don't mind."

\--

The droplets have seeped through your jacket, and your shirt has begun to stick against your back. A chill runs down your spine and you shiver against him. He turns to you, his pale blue eyes gleaming against the gray surrounding you two. "Cold?"

You frown, wiping the rain rivulets from your cheeks. "A little. Sorry I'm putting you through this. We're almost there, though."

"You're not putting me through anything."

Loki tilts the umbrella over to your side-- a quick, subtle movement but you notice it anyway. The rain is hitting his black suit much heavier now but he doesn't say a word, so you stay silent beside him, walking briskly to keep up with his long legs. You're careful to not snap the stem of the lavender rose.

"On our left-- right there! That's the entrance." You pull ahead and under the safety of the overhead awning. While you speedily dig through your bag for your keys, he gazes upward.

"This is your home?"

"Yeah."

"And this building is yours?"

You let out a snort. "Mm, not quite."

The lock clicks and you grin, pulling the door open. Whirling around, you take in the sight of the man in front of you, rain-stained but glorious under his black umbrella. There's probably not a square inch of him that's dry so you creak the door wider. You think your actions speak for themselves quite loudly enough, but he still stands there, awaiting your verbal answer.

"Aren't you coming in?" you ask over the rain. A eerily familiar thrum in your heart starts again as you speak, and you're almost afraid that he'd turn away this time. 

He stares at you, and you're forced to repeat yourself. "Do you want to come in for a bit? Maybe until the rain stops, or when you're all dried off?"

"You'd like me to come to your home?" he echoes. Stepping under the awning with you, he folds his umbrella in. 

"Sure," you say, "as long as you don't make it weird."

He shakes the tears out of the umbrella folds. "I don't like making promises, but I'll try."

The warm air in the building softens you up, bringing feeling back into your numbed ears, and immediately you drag off your sodden jacket. The landlord was going to complain about the puddle on the ground but that's expected, and you can't be bother with sopping it right then. You escape the scene and take the stairs, with Loki following close at your heels.

"I live in the building, but the only place that's mine is here." You slide off your shoes upon entrance, and tousle the droplets out of your hair.

"This?" he says, unable to keep the incredulity out of his voice. This time, you try not to bristle. "In this wing, you only reside here?"

"Well," you say defensively, opening the closet door and hanging your jacket and bag up for the time being. "It's not bad. I don't need much space, and I live alone."

He steps in behind you curiously, and shuts the door. 

Walking over to the kitchen, you set the flower down on the counter. "I know I said you could dry off here but honestly? I don't know. I can take your jacket and dry it over the heater, but I doubt I have clothes that fit you." When you turn back to him, he's already got his wet blazer off, and he's undoing his tie. You stiffen, unsure of where to look. His dress shirt is transparently soaked, sticking to his skin, and with exceeding clarity, so was your own clothing.

You find some solace knowing that he at least felt somewhat comfortable around you.

"I'll get you a towel," you call over your shoulder. 

When you return, the god is leaned over, tinkering with the decor on your counter top, clearly absorbed. His dark hair falls over his face in wet locks but when upon your footsteps he stands himself upright, taking the towel graciously. "Thank you," he murmurs, and again, you feel out of place, in your own apartment.

You nimbly take his damp jacket to hang it near the heater and you wonder whether you should go the extra mile here and offer him a cup of tea. Or just  _something_. You're not quite sure how long he's staying for, whether it be for an hour or for the night, but you can't deal with the murky air. You take a deep breathe.

"I'm going to take a shower," you say, "I trust you not to destroy my apartment." You don't wait for a reply as you slip out of his line of sight and into the bathroom. There, you stare at yourself. Your nose and ears are a fading red, and you're fairly certain that you'll be bedridden in a few days, down with the cold. You slither out of your clothing. In the shower, you're allotted a short duration of time to reflect on everything, as well increasingly becoming aware that a god is standing in your living room.

A god that you invited in, to clarify, so you had no excuse say that you didn't want his presence. You crank the temperature higher. 

You don't know how they do it in Asgard, but this typically was an invitation for more than drying off and talking. You frown as you pump out the body wash, wondering what your next move was to be. Would it be rude to ask him at what time he's going to leave? No, you're not asking that. Maybe you'll ask him if he wishes to stay the night-- no, no. That's worse. That's provocative, and you're not quite sure how he'd react. 

You shut the faucet and wring the water out of your hair again. You thought the nervous feelings that arose with him had died already, but they're stirring again deep in your stomach. He was right. He wasn't fit to be a friend. You wipe the condensation off the mirror.

Loki was much more intuitive than you had given him credit for, you knew with striking clarity as you slipped on a bathrobe. You should've known earlier. You're just interested in how this will play out. You press your hands onto your cheeks and with surprise pull them away quickly. They burn. 

Opening the bathroom door, you let the wisps float out for a moment before stepping out yourself. 

You're making that tea, you nod to yourself. Perhaps you'd benefit from a conversation.  

You're careful to speedily slip into your bedroom and pull on your pajamas. They aren't particularly scandalous as you might want them to be when you invite a stranger in, but they do invoke a certain image, your enormously large t-shirt and sweatpants. If he was there to hurt you, he would have done it at your most vulnerable position-- in the shower, wouldn't he? But you don't believe he will at all, not anymore, and that puzzles you.

When you finally reappear, he makes no verbal comment on your attire, only drags his gaze along your figure, taking you in. 

"I feel bad," you say, "I don't think I have anything that'll fit you." You thought that it was possible you still owned several articles of clothing from former significant lovers, but the meticulous past you must have tossed them all out already. 

He just shakes his head, running his fingers through his drying hair.

"Can you not dry yourself off?" you say distractedly, passing him to the mirror. "With your magic and all?"

"I can only distort what you see," he says, "not alter the reality." He admit it himself-- the flower was just a trick of the eyes. But you expected that. But then how did the flower grow in the first place?

"Oh," is your only response.

“You’re on edge,” he says, standing near the side of your sofa. Another observation.

“It’s been a long time since I let a stranger come over to my apartment.” You face the full-body mirror, gently picking out your contacts. You clean your glasses on your shirt before putting them on.

“A stranger,” Loki repeats.

“Certainly not a friend, at least,” you reply lightly, a twinge of amusement fluctuating your voice in a way you didn’t mean it to. It was the most unusual thing that you had the nerve to joke with him.

Perhaps the weeks of interaction had all led up to a sort of gentle but unexpected rapport between you two. It was unexpected when he returned to your store in the first place, and it’s unexpected even now as he stands at the front of your home with the door closed behind him, dripping with rainwater. He looks magnificently human there, holding your towel.

“Certainly not,” he says in a whisper so faint that if you had not been paying attention, the thrum of the heaters would have concealed it entirely.

“We’ll work our way through, right?” you muse. “Up the ladder.”

“What?”

You turn, facing him with clarity. "We'll be friends eventually, Loki. I think. After all, I did invite you over."

"That's a very romantic perspective," he says, matter-of-factly.

Your soft smile vanishes. "What is?"

"That we must be friends to be close." He folds the towel in his hands, putting in neatly on the coffee table before walking over to you. "That's what you want, correct? To get to me?"

"Strange way to put it," you hum, pulling away to your stove. "Do you want tea?"

"You're not answering me."

You pull out the kettle. "Is that such a crime?" you say exasperatedly, keeping your eyes trained on the tea tins you pull out from the cabinets. "To want to know you?"

"I never said it was," he says, "also, I like red tea."

You push away the rest of the canisters and unscrew the tin of rooibos, sniffing its contents. "Good choice. Can you get the mugs? They're on the top right shelf." You hold the kettle under the faucet.

They clink on the counter, and you wait for the water to boil. What now? you think, furrowing your brows. You don't know how to gauge his vague responses, and you have the hunch that he's playing with you-- attempting to elicit a certain answer from you. But you don't know what he wants you to say, not exactly. You gaze out the high kitchen windows, absorbing the therapeutic sound of rain hitting the panes.

"What's on your mind?" he asks, taking a seat at the counter table. You watch the way he crosses his legs and leans in, with his hand on his chin, staring up at you.

"No, nothing." After a moment, you say, "I just never would think you'd be sitting in my apartment. Waiting on a cup of tea."

He huffs. "The feeling is mutual."

"You know, I've wanted to say this earlier," you turn around, leaning against the counter but now eyeing the kettle, "but I was so surprised the day you came back to the store. Elle told me you came back."

"Elle?"

"The older lady who works there too?"

"Oh, her. Yes, she was there when I returned," he confirms, picking up the mug like it was a fragile object.

"She told me you asked about me."

"And I was impressed greatly to find that you actually owned the shop," he murmurs. "Your point?"

"No point," you dismiss. You turn back to the kettle and lift the lid to peer inside momentarily. Either it was taking an abnormally long time to boil or the clock was ticking slower than it normally does.

"No, no. Talk. What about me astounds you?"

You know what he wants you to admit. He wants you to recall his reputation, his crimes to his face. But you're not going to give him that satisfaction, because that's not what's nagging you in the back of your mind.

"That you like me," you state, enunciating in the most uncomplicated form you could have. "And wanted to see me again."

Loki doesn't speak immediately, and you think you've got him, until he does. "That's the conclusion you come to? The apex of it all-- that I like you?"

"Acknowledge my presence, then. Appreciate me, even," you reiterate. 

"Of course I like you. I made that clear from the start."

Um. No, he didn't, but go off? All men are universally the same it appeared.

"You come around a lot," you say, stepping towards his side. You take a tablespoon out of the drawer and dig it into the rooibos. "Do you live nearby?"

"You've noticed," he says in response, now ignoring your question. "Are you ever eager to see me?"

Your attention turns to the rose-- still on the very far edge of the counter-- having not lost its vibrancy and elegance quite yet, and then back to Loki. 

“I think about you a lot,” you say bluntly instead. You dump a spoonful in each mug then set the tin and spoon aside. “Is that weird?”

His downcast eyes glance up at you momentarily. “I’m not the best person to ask.” You can’t bring yourself to do anything but observe as he extends his arm, tucking your hair back with delicate fingers. You run your tongue along your bottom lip, trying to ignore the way your ears are beginning to burn.

Maybe you've crossed the line now. Maybe this wasn't at all what he was insinuating, maybe--

“You’re never not in my thoughts,” he admits. “What do you think of that? Flattering? Or frightening?”

He reaches over and clasps his hand over yours, and you feel an exhilarating rush from the contact, as if he is pouring all the things he cannot describe into touch. Without warning, he pulls you in close, placing his other hand on your back to keep you from withdrawing and setting distance between you and him. He's sitting down, but his height allows him to still be at eye-level with you.

You just gape, wide eyed. 

He leans forward, and to your surprise, you don’t lean away from the intimate nature of his breath upon your ear. “Personally,” he muses in a soft, low voice, “I think it's both.”

A breath in your throat stops and it’s like the world is at a standstill for the moment where you gaze at him in the silence and he gazes back, both searching for some affirmation, some mutuality in the sea of unknown.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were flirting with me.”

He takes the hand off your back but remains close. “Darling, then you don’t know half of it.”

You wipe at your face, breaking the eye contact to look away. The strange, palpable air is broken when another sudden clap of thunder outside catches your attention. You squint at something on the counter, beside his mug.

"Oh... you found your coin."

 "Well. It wasn't exactly hidden. And it's no longer mine; I gave it to you. Did you want to return it so bad? Why?" He searches every inch of your face. "Is your pride so grand that you can't accept this even now?"

"No," you say, uneasily, "that's not it. And actually--"

"In fact," he interrupts, snatching it. He holds it up, turning it round and round in his hand. "I'll take it back if that'll quell your discomfort."

"-- I'd like to have it now," you say, standing your ground. This is about as transparent as you can be now, but he just gazes at you peculiarly.

"Why the change?"

You take the coin from between his fingers. "It reminds me of you."

You're surprised to hear him laugh at this, and look up. His eyes shine of mirth, brows raised. "Does it really? I'm honored."

"You should be," you say, shoulders tense.

"I hope that flower only encourages your habit."

"I'm sure it will." You sigh, and then continue, "Would you like a constant reminder of me as well, or are you all good?"

Loki snorts. "You're joking."

"Excuse me?"

"I get one every single time I enter that shop of yours."

Opening your mouth, you try to speak but nothing comes out. You both jump as the kettle starts to squeal, so you put down the coin and rush over. Taking off the lid, you gingerly pour the boiling water into the mugs to steep the tea, being cautious not to spill. You take the seat diagonal from him, and blow on the curls of vapor coming out of your mug.

"So," you say, clearing your throat. "Are you taking the couch tonight?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some like slow burns, others like intense love affairs. i give you: neither of these  
> also OMG this was a difficult & weirdly long chapter to write and i definitely am gonna go over 12k this time IM SORRY!!
> 
> but yes thank you SM for reading! all of ur comments are always so sweet thank you so much again :'--)


	4. Chapter 4

As you had somewhat expected, he did not stay the night. In fact, you're not quite sure when he left; whether it had been the second you fell asleep or the second you awoke. Or perhaps it was the moment that the rain stopped that allowed him to flee. Either way he was already gone by the time you opened your eyes. The only real trace of him were the two empty mugs in the sink and the towels on the floor that were left to sop up whatever puddles of rain from last night.

Where you disappointed? Not exactly. You certainly didn't expect to awake to him on your couch, deep in sleep; nor did you expect him to be awake and making you pancakes.

You sat at the kitchen table similarly to how you did last night, instead now peeling back the foil of a muffin. Still, you think, there was an unusual prickly feeling you felt as you thought about the events last night. Nothing _really_ changed-- the god was still quite the enigma; and yet, you're not sure how you should look at him the next time he comes around. It's as though you've inadvertently exposed some part of you that was never meant to be; and in turn, he did the exact same. It was a strange, strange interaction. You take a big bite and look out the window across you. 

You're not quite sure what to make of this revelation. On your left, a single lavender rose was propped inside a slim, translucent glass vase, beautiful in its own lonely way.

"So, are you taking the couch tonight?" you had asked last night, over the downpour.

He doesn't answer immediately, and there's a flicker that passes across his face, but it's too quick for you to comprehend. "No," he says simply, without delving into any excuse nor explanation.

You had shrugged, taking off your steam covered glasses and take a cautious sip. "Okay." You didn't ask at what time he planned to leave, and in retrospect, you should have. "I'm sure you can see yourself out later." Your own nonchalance startles you and whatever you wished to say suddenly dies on your tongue, and you are left staring down at your mug. The domesticity of the situation was laughable, like-- like he was a busy lover who wished to drop by for a few words before taking their leave. At this, you let out a snort, then quickly clap a hand over your mouth. "Sorry," you say, and then to hastily change the subject before he can prod at your internal conflicts, "can I ask you something?"

He doesn't reply, so you take this as an affirmation.

"Don't laugh, but," you start, "but why do you like it... there?"

"There?"

Your brows knit together uneasily. "My store. I mean like how did you find it, exactly? Why are you over here, out of all the places you could be in?"

Loki nods, bringing the mug to his mouth. "Good question. I wonder, do you believe in fate? Kismet?"

A frown pulls at your mouth. "Why do you never answer my questions?"

"I'm quite certain you already know the answers to them," he says in a flat, unhurried tone. "So, again, do you?"

"Not really," you say pointedly.

"Good. Me neither. Chance, on the other hand, led me here. To you, perhaps."

You bite back a laugh. "That's so...," you pause. "Charming. You flatter people all the time like this or am I special?"

"So you think I'm attempting to beguile you?" It's an openly-spoken statement, as if he's just trying to collect data by his tone, but the words itself are rooted in disbelief; almost even petulance.

"I wouldn't be surprised," you hum. You watch his fingers clasp around his mug distractedly.

A shadow of a smile flits across his countenance. "Maybe it's best to keep it ambiguous. Makes things riveting, doesn't it?"

You would think so, you think. The amused glow in his eyes should infuriate you, but instead you feel just as entertained by the conversation. You have a faint urge to smile bright upon gazing at him, but force yourself to just sit tight, chewing on the inside of your cheek. 

"It does seem odd, though," he says. "Are you suggesting something by allowing me refuge in your home with a pretense... or are you just that gracious?"

You jerk your head up in alarm. "What are you talking about? You think I invited you over to have sex?"

Your direct skepticism doesn't faze him at all, but his mouth twitches. "Careful, you've jumped to conclusions there. I'm only alluding to our relationship."

Our relationship, he says. That's so bizarre.

"Our relationship," you echo aloud this time, "that's an odd choice of words."

"Is it? To whom?"

"To anyone other than us, maybe? You know, it'd be so much easier to instead say 'frien--'"

"Who else in the picture? You may not be lonely, but you certainly are alone." 

"You don't know that," you say sharply, "I just live by myself, that's all."

He blinks, unperturbed, as if he can see through you. "I apologize then. I wasn't aware."

"So what if I were taken?" you say, narrowing your eyes. "What then?" 

"What then, indeed? Tell me, what should I do? Whisk you away from them-- is that what you'd like?" Loki leans back, his bright eyes sweeping over you. You card your fingers through your drying locks, keeping your gaze direct and thinking carefully on your next words. "Or leave you alone in peace? That's doable; Earth is a fairly massive planet. Or we could stay exactly where we are." His voice is a smooth current, articulate as always, so you're not sure why you're getting caught up in the wave all of a sudden. "It's entirely up to you, honestly speaking." Loki takes another sip as if what he'd said was just weather talk; of nothingness, but he doesn't take his gaze off you once.

You suppose you both are in the dark for this one.

"I don't know if I like where we are right now," you muse. "It's a little unclear for me, where we stand."

"No? Then, please, lead by example," he says, "show me how to be more concrete."

Your tea was getting lukewarm and you feel the ceramic mug having gone cold underneath your touch. By the end of the night, he had finished his beverage and you barely touched yours.

More needless ramblings continued late into the evening, but all in all the conclusion, the underlying nature of everything was consistent. You were, admittedly, too nervous to say anything direct. You wished it was the same for him, but instead there was a peeving feeling you received that he was toying with you on the other hand, making you croon under him without even saying a word.

You finish eating your muffin, and you are hit with a spontaneous urge to see him again.

One thing is certain among this disarray of clashing emotions. You were not to be the Bonnie to his Clyde, you think to yourself with acute clarity, nor are you the docile plaything to a warlord. You're a human, living their life to the best they can and that was that. Maybe if you just tell him so, all fog would clear up immediately. 

Nevermore, you still wanted the god. Or so it seemed. 

You might not love him, but you loved seeing him. You loved the little traits-- quirks, even-- he displayed. Seeing him smile and laugh was almost entrancing, and as if you didn't recognize the man-- as if the entity that destroyed New York was someone entirely different. And maybe, it was. But of course you'd never deny that occurrence entirely nor will you ever forgive him for it, for it was never something he could redeem himself to you anyway.

You wonder what he would've been like if he was human but all else was the same. If he was just a typical human on Earth instead who wished to purchase lilies and you fell in love. You wonder if you would have adored him sooner. You suppose you'll never really know.

You spend the rest of your day reading, dozing off, zoning out but you can't stop thinking about Loki. What was he doing at this very moment? How humiliating would it be for him to realize the extent of your thoughts? He did say he thought about you too. A lot. This is becoming unhealthy.

You haven't told any of your friends about him. After all, how could you? "Yeah, your boyfriend might be a main editor to that international business magazine, but the dude I'm interested in is a man who's currently wanted by the federal government."

You struggle to get off your couch and get dressed. You need to stop reminding yourself. You take inventory of what's in the fridge while you shrug on your sweatshirt. Maybe you'll go shopping for a bit and hope you don't run into anyone you know. When you step out the building, a huge gust of wind blows your hair back and knocks you back, but you don't mind it as you walk down the sidewalks. You take the long way around blocks to avoid walking pass your store.

Comfortably unzipping your coat when you enter the grocery store, you grab a basket. What did you need? You reevaluate your presence there in the air-conditioned store. Milk, maybe. Bread. Maybe you'll even indulge yourself in some discounted pink candy while you were at it.

Without warning, you bump into someone's shoulder. "Oh," you say, pulling away, "I'm so sorry!"

They turn and you freeze. "Cody?"

The college student smiles back at you. "Hey," he says, "what's up?" You look down at his basket, which contained only a sack of potatoes.

"Cody, I thought you went abroad?"

"Yes, well, I'm on break now, so I decided to come back and do some errands," he says, scratching his neck.

You nod. "I see. When did you get back?"

"Just yesterday! I was actually planning on going to the store today to see if I could come back and put in a few hours."

"Seriously? Don't you want to relax now that you're on break?" you say, smiling at his earnest nature.

"I like to keep myself busy, you know how it is."

You sigh. "That I do. How have your studies been going? Your life?"

"Not bad," he says, "I met someone though. Won't be spending Valentine's Day alone, I guess."

"Oh, I'm glad. You needed someone to help you alleviate your stress anyway," you tease.

"What about you? How are you and George?" he retorts, and you scoff. You'd let him know early on about your slip-up with Elle but that had been a grave mistake seeing that he always joked about that.

"It's been nice," you say. "Picture perfect."

"Yeah? Thinking about marriage yet?"

"Yes. That and the white picket fence and two and a half kids."

"Exciting," Cody says, "invite me to the wedding."

You laugh. "Nice meeting you again. Elle's working today but I'll get the schedule ready for next week then."

"Same here, and thanks!"

When you split off from here, you strangely feel lighter. You take your half gallon of soy milk and bagels and leave. Maybe with Cody coming back for a few weeks, you could finally get the break you want. The other day, you got an applicant who you're probably going to get Elle to train, which was terrific. It all seemed to be work out.

When you go to sleep that night, you think of Loki again but this time, it only brings you solace.

\--

You go to work again on a Thursday, days after having let your employees know of your absence for the following week. Admittedly, it was of extremely short notice, but no one seemed to mind very much, so that comforted you. When you had told Elle you were finally going to Boston to meet George, she gave you a great big smile and told you to have fun. 

You feel a bizarre twinge of regret for when you'll "come back" from Boston and admit you've broken up with him.

In the afternoon, you see Loki through the shop windows and you smirk, amused. He's right, and he's always been right-- you were eager to see him.

"Hello," you greet straightforwardly. "How are you?" 

Maybe you imagined the ghost of a smile appear on his mouth but when you blink it's gone.

“Would you like to accompany me somewhere?" he presses out of the blue.

“When?”

“Now.”

“I can’t,” you say slowly, “we don’t close until six today.”

He purses his lips, and looks at you with a tilted gaze. “That wasn’t the question. I asked if you would like to accompany me.”

You remain silent and motionless for a palpable moment, before walking around the counter to the front. There, you shut off the lights, fingers hovering over the door handle.

"Okay," you say. "Where to?"

You would have never expected where you were about to end up after you locked the door. He barely says a word to you as you walk, so you're allowed to stew in your thoughts beside him for a while.

"The park?" you say as you stood at the front where the large stone sign sat. Watching joggers come and go on the familiar dirt path, you remember when you used to pass by this park as child, a definite monument in your younger years. You wonder if he knew that but he doesn't ask at all, and instead walks forward down to the pathway that's partially hidden by drooping tree leaves.

You follow suit after him, catching up quickly. "How do you know this place?"

"I do more than just buy lilies in my time," he snorts.

He explores. There's something charming about that, but you keep it to yourself. You match your steps to his brisk pace, confused as to why he was being so sharp now.

"The weather is so nice today," you start, despite knowing that he wasn't one for shallow nothings about the weather. But when he doesn't respond, you try again. "Who are you giving flowers to?"

Loki continues to stay quiet beside you.

"You can't just bring me out on a date and then not talk to me," you say.

"A date?"

"That's what this is, isn't it?"

"We haven't officiated our affinity yet though." When you look over to him, he's smiling.

"So you're just testing the waters with this, I get it," you say with playfulness.

"Yes, you could say that."

"Then we've been testing the waters for an awfully long time now."

"Sit with me," he suddenly says instead.

You pat the bench seat first to make sure it wasn't damp before sitting down with a moderate gap between you and him. "I gift them to the people of Asgard."

"What?"

He observes your expressions and shrug. "They appreciate the kind gesture from their prince."

"Are they on Earth too?" you ask, now concerned. What happened to the citizens of Asgard?

"Yes," he says without skipping a beat, "it's a rather long story."

You don't pry and so just nod in acknowledgment. You pull at the long stem of a weed, plucking its blossom to fidget with before tossing it.

“How do you Asgardians express it,” you finally ask, looking to the leaves of the overhanging trees, “when you want to court someone?”

"Court?"

"Yes, court. Do you guys just say date?"

A brief, huffy laugh escapes him. “How archaic do you presume us to be?”

“It’s a genuine question,” you say defensively, turning towards him. “I think you all still wear chainmail.”

“Affection is universal,” he says in a modulated tone. There’s a pause, as he searches your eyes with a sort of wistfulness; almost even a tenderness.

You don't flinch back when he leans forward.

He cups your face with both hands and you don’t mind the chill as you breathe into him. Your hands subconsciously reach out but you’re not sure what to grab onto– his shoulders? His waist? You delicately place your hands onto his warm chest, and feel his loud, steady heartbeat under your fingertips.

“You looked divine,” he says, his voice soft. “Among the leaves.”

You let out a small whine, pulling your hands away. “That’s so embarrassing.”

“You did,” he insists. “You do.” His large, nimble hands trace down your neck, your shoulders, your sides, to find your fingers. “It suits you.”

“What? My job?”

“Everything you associate yourself with,” he whispers, and kisses the inner of your wrist. The very place where you, all those months ago, scratched yourself on thorns.

“Even yourself?”

He glances back at you at this offhanded question. “I adore you,” he finally says, in his normal, articulate fashion, “is that enough?”

At first, he waits for a verbal response but you don’t offer one. It’s as though there was no rhetoric to begin with, and your answer will only make or break what’s been done. You raise your head to press your lips against the corner of his mouth. “Well,” you say, “I hope so.”

He returns your kiss now, chaste and kind, and you smile against his touch. He drops soft kisses onto your exposed neck and subconsciously pulling at your collar.

You’re the first to pull away from his contact, brows furrowed. “I’d like to remind you that we’re in public.”

“So we are,” he says, absentmindedly. There is a warm light in his pale eyes, and you think that you adore seeing that.

"Come," you say, standing up. "Let's get up. Walk with me."

He obliges, and you two find a leisurely pace. The dirt path is quiet as it always is, but whilst you attempt to enjoy the quiet, you can't help but have your glances linger on his profile. The regal atmosphere that you once remarked upon was illuminated in this dim light, and he truly looked like a prince, if not a king.

"You don't have a phone, do you?"

"No," he says, "I hope you know that those devices are how your government tracks you. And I certainly don't need that."

"Yeah, but I'm not a wanted criminal, so I guess that makes sense."

"How do you think they'd react if they knew you were my associate?"

"Probably would get subjected to some interrogation," you say, "but that's it. I haven't done anything and I don't plan to."

"I don't either," he hums.

"But how are you not under S.H.I.E.L.D's constant surveillance?" you ask, then pause. "Is that why you like this neighborhood? Because nothing ever happens here?"

"Is that what you think?" he scoffs. "Don't misunderstand, I'm not afraid of being persecuted. But you're right, this nondescript little bubble is nice. After all," he says, "who's going to subdue me? You?"

You roll your eyes. "Don't underestimate me."

"Mm," he says. "Of course."

Another sweet quiet fills the air between you two as you walk aimlessly down the path, until the passerbys grow less and less frequent. 

"It's getting late," you say, peering up at the darkening sky.

"It is," he agrees simply, looking towards the clouds with you. "Did you want to return?"

"I might just head straight back to my apartment. I'll let whoever's working tomorrow morning know of whatever I didn't get to."

"To your apartment? That's so boring."

You stop walking and turn to him. "Then where?" you ask. "Where do you want to go now?"

"Take me," he says in a deliberate tone, "to where the flowers eternally bloom."

You just laugh. "I think Earth has warped you."

"Maybe so," he admits. "I'm still learning so much about the nuances here."

"Nuances?"

"The world how you see it," he says.

"I don't think you'll ever really get it."

He exhales softly. "Perhaps."

"But," you say, "I think that's part of the allure, right? ... Makes things riveting."

"It does indeed," he whispers and kisses you again in the mellow night where even the trees and grass have begun to sway to a dreamier beat than ever and before long, you were reduced to nothing but smiles. All was working out just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and there you have it ..... alternatively titled "how to make loki fall in love w a florist in 15k or less" so first off, THANK YOU ALL for reading up to the end! if you liked this lmk!
> 
> secondly if any one of you want to take one for the team and be friends w/ me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/mjolnjrs) and/or [tumblr](http://michverse.tumblr.com) that would be great thanks cos i have legit zero mcu friends so please lmk who u are and i'll follow back MWAH !!!!!


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